


The Book of Love

by Specbubble



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specbubble/pseuds/Specbubble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John catches a sleeping Sherlock, he feels compelled to leave him a note.<br/>Chapter 2 now added!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was seconds away from slamming the door to the flat when he happened to look down onto the sofa and see a certain someone wrapped up in a blanket and fast asleep. John lowered himself silently into a chair opposite. He didn’t want to wake him, he looked so peaceful, his soft breaths huffing his hair away from his forehead. John knew he had to go out, and maybe he would be gone before he woke up. 

John pulled a notepad towards him and began to write.

These are just some of the things I love about you:

I love the way your nose crinkles when you’re concerned about something.

I love the way you find my scar so fascinating. I like the fact you can’t leave it alone. You’re always stroking and poking and fiddling and wondering. I love the way that when you touch it, it doesn’t feel so bad anymore. You’re like a fine thread being drawn through me, mending my scars, mending my tears.

I love the way you wiggle the big toe on your right foot when you’re thinking.

I love the fact that you let me see you’re human. I can’t ever thank you enough for this. You let me know that actually, like all of us, you get cold, scared, hungry, tired, lonely, worried, frustrated and unhappy. I know the world thinks you’re carved from steel; I know they think you don’t have a heart. I can’t even begin to tell them how wrong they are. If they could only see you, crouched down like a praying mantis and cooing at a kitten. Stroking the hair from my eyes when I’m waking up. They’d know that know that really, your outside may be as tough as anything, but your inside is as soft as a strawberry crème.

I love the fact that when you think I’m not looking or listening you fart discreetly.

I love the fact that I once watched you eating a packet of sugar coated strawberry boot laces, watching an episode of Johnny Bravo and quite frankly never looking so happy.

Do you remember when I bought you that sphygmomanometer from the antique medical shop? The one in the wooden case. I’ll never forget that look on your face when you opened it, I loved it. You clapped your hands like a little child. It was beautiful.

Speaking of beautiful, do I tell you often enough that you are? If you don’t think so, please tell me and I will say it more. You are, you know, breathtaking. Carved from marble by angels themselves. Whoever made you did their best days work. I like that none of you really makes sense, that you were put together from a bin of off-cuts and just happened to become the most beautiful thing to have ever have existed. You’re too tall, too skinny, and your feet and hands are huge. You’ve a mop of curls on your head that wouldn’t look out of place on a cherub were they not so inky dark. Your cheekbones are ridiculous, ridiculously beautiful that is, the clothes hanger for the rest of your body. Your eyes are insane- for god’s sake, I gaze into them all the time and I haven’t the faintest idea what colour they are. Your mouth is plump and pink and that cupids bow so deep when you’re asleep I trace my finger over it, again and again, mesmerised. You’re so beautiful darling. Don’t ever forget that. 

When you can’t sleep your rub your feet together, an equal amount of times. I love it.

I love that I once saw you in the bath playing with that wind up boat. Don’t be embarrassed. I do it too. 

I love that you sometimes watch me move around the flat, just doing whatever. I love that you watch me for hours.

I love that your skin always smells of the same thing- tea, toast and baby powder. Why baby powder? Is there anything you want to tell me?

I love that you never challenge me about my past. Most people do- they want to know everything. They want to talk to a hero; they want to know the horror. You don’t. You let me tell you when I want to, and say nothing when I need to.

I love that you once ate a jar of golden syrup for an ‘experiment’, even though it made you puff up like a cheesy wotsit and you had to spend the weekend in A&E.

I love you for loving me. 

I love the way you wrinkle your nose up and pull tomatoes out of sandwiches. Never met anyone so violently offended by tomatoes.

I love the fact that you can merrily dissect a human foot using my jumper to soak up any effluvia but if there’s a daddy long legs in the room you call me to get rid of it. 

I love the way you pretend you weren’t singing out loud when I walk in the flat by briskly shutting your mouth. I have ears, love. For the record, you do a fantastic version of “Teenage Dream”. Katy Perry should be scared.

I once watched you choosing the last two brownies in a coffee shop, do you remember, when we are away on the case of the missing potato? You gave me the big one. Thank you. I loved it. 

I love the way you keep trying, even in the face of defeat. You’re so logical, level headed and decisive when you need to be. You’re also insane, but it’s okay. I love that too. 

I love the way you wear my jumpers. 

I love that once Mycroft has trotted out of the room swinging that umbrella he carries for no discernable reason you always have to scoop me into a rib-squishing hug and rub your face over mine like a cat. It’s like you’re taking a bath in me. I hope it makes you feel better.

I love that you can write with your toes. I’ve seen you do it. 

I love it when your mask falls. Do you remember when you were pacing up and down the room like a tiger in a cage muttering something about if the sister had a broken metacarpal then it must be the sister and then you slipped on the bottom of your pyjamas, fell over stack of books and managed to dislodge an old furry cup of coffee over your face? I expected you to combust. You laughed.

I couldn’t decide for ages if I should write this but….do you remember when you came back? After you’d been away…and everyone asked you if I’d punched you in the face or refused to see you again, and I hadn’t and you couldn’t work out why, especially once you’d heard that I’d punched a wall and yelled at next doors cat. Well. Here’s the thing. You know a lot of stuff, but here’s the one thing you should know. There was never a moment, never a second, never a heartbeat, or a blink where anything between us was any different. The reason for this is because that’s how much I love you. That’s the thing you should know most of all. 

John folded the note neatly in half and propped it under a nearby cup of coffee. He tiptoed from the flat, closing the door behind him. He only wished he could see his face when he woke up and read it.


	2. Sherlock's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to write John a note too....

Sherlock awoke with a stretch and a sigh. He called for John and hearing no response, righted himself quickly and thumped his bare feet onto the floor. A note awaited him nearby. 

He opened the note, and slouched back into the sofa to read.

It took him barely moments to read John firm handwriting but almost ten minutes to calm down. He brushed away a quiet tear that rolled smoothly down his face. The note from John was a thing of such beauty, he could hardly stand it. He wanted to photocopy it and wallpaper the flat with it. He wanted to have it made into a t-shirt- have the words tattooed onto his bare flesh. He grabbed his phone.

Oh John. Thank you  
SH

What for?  
JW

Your note. It was so lovely.  
SH

Don’t be silly. Everyone on this world deserves love. You more than most, I admit. X  
JW

That was the total of it really. John didn’t see him as something untouchable- a snowflake or a spider web, he saw him as a palpable living thing, a human. With a heart to break. When you fall in love with someone, they hold your heart in their hands. It is so easy to crush it. It takes such strength and courage to hold that heart, delicate as a butterfly’s wing, and do everything in your power to never let it feel hurt.

Sherlock sighed as he knew he wouldn’t be back when John returned from work, having to go to some ridiculous family bother that he had agreed to months ago when he wasn’t really paying attention. John had offered to come but Sherlock had argued that one of them facing an evening of sheer torture was enough. He knew what he could do. Write John a note too. Okay. Easy.

Twenty minutes later, silk dressing gown flapping and dark curls bouncing, pen had not touched paper. There were a million things he adored about John, but there seemed to be no connection from mind to words. The mind of a scientist didn’t seem to have the soul of a poet.

Sherlock scooped his phone up.

 

New Text:

Mycroft, how do you...

Oh forget it. What a silly idea.

Lestrade, how does one write a...

No, he’d never hear the end of that.

Molly, how does one write a love letter?

He almost pressed send but remembered just in time that Molly was more likely to phone him and cry than actually be of any help. There was only one person who could solve a mystery like this. For once, it wasn’t Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson opened the door to her perpetually warm flat with a grin. She smelt of soft perfume, lavender and baked goods. She ushered Sherlock in and fussed with him. Once he was settled on her enormous sofa with a cup of tea strong enough to melt the spoon and a scone almost the size of his head, she let him speak.

“Mrs Hudson. I need to write John a love letter.”

“Do you now, dear?” replied Mrs Hudson “But you live together. Couldn’t you just tell him? Although a note is romantic, isn’t it!”

“He wrote me one” Sherlock grumbled, blushing a little, “and I need to write one back, because I won’t see him today. Tell me, is there a website or a book or…”

Mrs Hudson’s face began to cloud inwards, her mouth pinched a little and she set her cup of tea down. She fixed Sherlock with her exasperated expression and told him firmly.

“My dear. No, you’re looking at this all wrong. I can’t tell you why you love John. I don’t know, only you know. You can’t reason with love, there’s no formula or sense to it. I know you love him, I can see it every day, but only you know why. You need to shut that ridiculous brain of yours off, and open your heart. He’s a wonderful man, I know that, and so do you, so tell him. Go on, off you go.”

Sherlock swooped down on Mrs Hudson and kissed her firmly on the cheek. She smiled at him in her gentle way and then asked brightly, her head cocked to one side like a sparrow.

“Sherlock, do you know who Nat King Cole is?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment 

“Yes” he replied.

Mrs Hudson chucked Sherlock under the chin as she showed him out.  
“He said, the greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return. He wasn’t wrong dear. Good luck.”

Sherlock bounded up the stairs and sat down in front of the notepad. Open your heart. Okay, no problem.

He tapped the pen. He slapped a nicotine patch on firmer than he should have done, probably leaving a bruise. He chatted to the skull. He stared out of the window. This wasn’t working.

A man was walking down the street, small, compact, and jolly. He looked like John. His jaunty walk suggested he was happy. His phone must have chimed as he slipped his hand into his pocket, and he opened the text from whomever it was, grinning, he tapped out a reply before bouncing away. Across the road, a tall woman stepped out of a taxi, pushed her long hair away from her face and with a laugh, hugged her companion close, whispering into her ear. 

Sherlock began to write.

John,

Before I knew you, I didn’t know of the glorious sensation of being loved. I saw the pain of loss, the fear of rejection, the horror of betrayal. I blocked out the joy, the happiness, and the adoration. I didn’t believe love had a place in my life. I was so wrong.

I can’t imagine how hard it is loving someone like me. But you do. It’s a very scary world out there, but with you by my side, I can face anything.

I do love you, you know. 

I love that your routine never differs, even when I’m Morris dancing around you, you fix me with a hard stare and butter your toast at a leisurely pace.

I love that you pretend you don’t fall asleep in front of the TV. Why do you always wake up when I try to turn it over? It’s magic.

I love the way you open a new magazine and sniff the spine. It is a lovely smell.

I love that you take care of me. It’s a great relief to know that whatever happens, I’ll be okay, because you make sure of that.

I love that you have a mistress. We both know it John. Baked beans. You love them. Me too.

I love that for all your gentleness, kindness and powers to heal; you have the strength of will of a thousand men. I know how much power it takes to not punch people on the nose when they call me a freak, or push Mycroft down the stairs when that sardonic eyebrow makes an appearance. But I love that you want to.

I love that you sing to yourself when you’re shaving. I never really cared much for Boston but it’s a loss to anyone who’s never heard you singing “More Than a Feeling.”

I love your calmness. I feel I could throw anything at you and you’d cope. I promise I will think of you more in future, however, and not leave a dead badger dipped in aspic in the fridge again. 

I love that you like to scratch inside your ears and examine the results. Its fine, really, the human body is endlessly fascinating.

I love that when you dream your arms follow some very unusual patterns. It looks like your conducting your own personal orchestra. It’s very beautiful in an odd way.

I love that you fart discreetly too. Yes. I do notice. 

I love how warm you are. At all times. Every home should come with one of you as standard.  


I have never met a creature so unaware of their beauty. You really don’t think you’re up to much, do you? You’ve no idea how wrong you are. You are an elegant statue, perfection in human form, a triumph. The day you were made was the best day’s work of anyone’s life. 

There could never be anybody else. Perhaps it’s hardly worth saying, but it’s true. You’re perfect.

I love you. I just needed to write that bit down.

I love that you have a never-ending appetite for strawberries. On their own, covered in sugar, drowned in cream, slathered in ice cream. You remind me of a strawberry. Soft, yet surprisingly strong. Small and delicious.

When I was...away, John. I missed you every day. I would have to remind myself you couldn't be that far away as we were under the same sky. I'm so sorry. I don't feel I can write any more about this. It hurts too much to think about when I was not with you. 

Thank you for loving me John. You are my constant, and I can never thank you enough for that.

Sherlock blinked twice at the piece of paper in front of him. Well. He didn’t think he had that in him. He read his note back, firm in his head that he meant every word. 

He shrugged on a suit and saw Mycroft waiting downstairs in his car. He left the note where John would notice straight away, and turned off the light.

Something waiting for you at home. I love you, and I always will.  
SH


End file.
